Reaching Out
by Cheeky Slytherin Lass
Summary: In which Hannah tries to drown her demons after the war, and Neville tries to save her.


_Warning: alcoholism _

_Word Count: 1024_

* * *

After the war is over, she feels herself collapse. There's noise and life in the Great Hall, but Hannah can't bring herself to be around other people right now. She drops to her knees, right there among the dust and debris, lifts her hands to her face, and weeps.

…

There's always been alcohol in the house as long as she can remember. Once, her father said it was relaxing, something adults need to ease the mind sometimes.

After Hannah's mother died, there was more and more alcohol in the house, and it would disappear so quickly.

She removes the lid from a clear bottle. _Vodka. _The smell makes her want to throw up, but she ignores it. Right now, she wants to fall into oblivion.

It burns as it goes down, but she welcomes the numbness that it brings. For once, the dead stop screaming.

…

Neville finds her in the Hog's Head one autumn afternoon. She's on her fifth shot of firewhiskey, and the flask tucked into her pocket is full; Aberforth is always hesitant to cut her off and send her off, but it always happens. She has to be prepared.

"Oh, hi," she says. "Thanks for checking in. I'm still a piece of garbage."

"That's not true," Nevilles says.

She laughs. Of course it's true. She's as useless as they come. If she wasn't, then maybe her friends would still be alive. Maybe she wouldn't see Justin's death over and over when she fell asleep.

She takes another shot.

"When's the last time you slept?" he asks.

She laughs again. "What is sleep but an illusion to escape the hell we create when we're awake?" She calls for another shot; it won't be long before Aberforth starts denying her.

"You blame yourself, don't you?"

Without a word, she downs the shot and fishes in her pocket for the coins to cover the bill. She glances at Neville and offers him a polite nod.

…

Her face is white as milk and beaded with cold sweat. The whites of her eyes are stained, bloodshot.

She tells herself that she is fine.

…

Neville finds her again. Maybe she should let him talk, but she can't bring herself to do that.

…

"Mum," she cries out, doubling over and clutching her stomach. "Mummy, I don't feel so good."

In the back of her mind, she knows her mum isn't there anymore. Like Justin. Like Colin. Like so many others.

Hannah drops to the floor, groaning pitifully. "Mummy…"

Vomit spews from her mouth, hot and acidic. Tears sting her eyes as she tries to climb to her feet, only to slip in her own sick. Her eyes close, and darkness overtakes her.

…

This time, she seeks Neville out. She's hungover, and the light hurts her head so bloody bad, but she _needs_ him. They have never been terribly close. Their seventh year brought them together somewhat, but she thinks they are still more acquaintances than friends.

"You look awful," he says.

"Words every woman wants to hear," she mutters.

…

"Nobody has control over life and death unless they're taking lives and causing deaths," Neville tells her over lunch.

Hannah picks at her sandwich. She can't remember the last time she's eaten real food. Sometimes she might have something junky and greasy with her alcohol, but, for the most part, the bottle has been enough.

"Nobody blames you," he tells her. "It was all Vol-Voldemort and his followers. You didn't do anything wrong."

There's a part of her that wants to believe him, that wants to know he means it.

But it still hurts too much.

…

He doesn't give up. Once, he told Dumbledore's Army that he didn't think he belonged in Gryffindor. With that tenacity, she thinks he's a good fit.

…

The bottle seems to taunt her. It knows that she is weak. It knows her failures.

She opens it and takes a deep swig, choking on the burning bitterness.

Maybe she hates herself for being like this.

…

Neville is good and kind, and he doesn't judge her when she tells him that she had a drink.

"It's just a setback," he says. "Not the end of the world."

And it doesn't make things feel like they're okay, but it's enough to ease her mind, even if it's only slightly.

…

"Why are you so nice to me?" she asks when they go out for dinner to celebrate a month of sobriety.

"You're a good person. Why would anyone not be nice to you?"

She watches the waiter pass by them. Her eyes remain fixed upon the wine he carries. Wine isn't her favorite, but right now she would kill for even a drop of alcohol.

She shakes her head, clearing her throat. "Thank you."

"How about dessert?"

…

He doesn't walk away, even when she makes it a year without alcohol. They walk together in the park, watching autumn leaves drift to the ground. He doesn't owe her anything; she wouldn't judge him for walking away.

But he stays, and she is more grateful than she could ever say.

"Coffee?" he asks.

It always ends like this. A chat, a walk, more talking, and it always ends with food or drink. Almost like…

"Neville, are we dating?" she asks softly.

His cheeks glow a dark crimson, and he stares awkwardly at his feet. "I mean… If… If you want to we can," he says, and she can hear the hopefulness in his voice.

Hannah smiles and takes his hand in hers. "I'd like that."

…

She still wakes up in the middle of the night, throat raw from screaming and tears stinging with tears. Now, she doesn't reach for the bottle.

"Nightmares again?" Neville murmurs, sitting up beside her.

Hannah blushes. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"Nonsense. I would rather you did."

With that, he wraps arms around her and pulls her into him as he lays back down. Her demons still haunt her. She is still healing. But it doesn't matter because he is by her side, and she knows she can reach for him.


End file.
